The Hawkweed Prophecy by Irena Brignull Page A

face, searching for clues to her sincerity. “It looks old,” he said.
    â€œI think it’s like a family heirloom. I’m supposed to be taking very good care of it.”
    He seemed to be waiting for her to say more, but when she didn’t he pressed on. “I grew up with all of that. My mother was into it, herbs and healing stones. Tarot cards too.”
    He gave a half-laugh and Poppy touched his arm without thinking. “I’m sorry,” she said, and suddenly her hand on his arm felt momentous and she quickly removed it. “She died, didn’t she?”
    He shut his eyes for a second before answering. “A few years ago. She wasn’t my real mother,” he said, like he was confessing a secret. “But it felt like it.”
    Poppy kept her hands in her lap, fighting the impulse to touch him again.
    He insisted on walking her home, even though it wasn’t far and Poppy told him she’d be fine on her own. She was limping, and he took her arm and she leaned on him. Despite the pain in her leg, Poppy took him the longest route. They walked without words, as if not wanting to puncture the promise that floated in the air. The silence was soft and silky, and they glided through it, letting it caress their skin. She got used to the boy’s warmth and felt the chill as soon as they parted. They stood there outside her house, looking at each other. Suddenly the silence seized them, tethering them too tightly.
    Say something , Poppy wished to the boy. And then she couldn’t bear the wait and spoke herself. “So now you know where I live.”
    The boy smiled, and she saw a hint of satisfaction there.
    â€œWhat about you?” she continued.
    He shifted from one foot to another, and Poppy couldn’t work out what was wrong but then he answered, “I live in town,” and she thought nothing more of it.
    The boy was looking at her like he wanted her to read something in his eyes, but Poppy tried and found herself illiterate. All at once she felt overwhelmed and she turned to go.
    â€œSee you around, then,” she muttered, but he reached out and took her hand in his. She glanced back at him apprehensively. But they just stood there, her hand in his until everything became about their two hands, joined, melded. Poppy looked from their hands to his eyes, and this time she could interpret what she saw there and her heart beat faster.
    â€œI just wanted to know what it felt like,” he said. Then he let go and Poppy felt bereft. “Good night, Poppy Hooper.”
    â€œHow d’you know my name?”
    He was walking away but he called out, and the word hung in the air: “Magic!”

    It was when Poppy put her bag down on her bed that she saw her name tag hanging from it. She shook her head, smiling to herself, then realized she’d never asked the boy his name. As she fell asleep, she focused her mind away from the dull ache in her shoulder and knees to her hand until she felt his hand there once again. She slept a dreamless sleep and awoke feeling truly rested and content and knowing, somehow, that his name was Leo.

C HAPTER N INE
    S orrel and her friends were picking the last of the autumn fruit when one of the younger girls came running up.
    â€œYour mother’s looking for you.” There was trepidation in the girl’s face, and Sorrel tossed her an apple in thanks for the warning.
    Her friends looked at Sorrel with concern.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she reassured. “It’ll be nothing important.” But Sorrel knew it must be and wondered what displeasure she’d caused now. She crossed the orchard and headed down the forest path, preparing herself for the onslaught to come.
    Raven was plucking a goose when Sorrel reached her, her wiry arms working fast, the feathers collecting at her feet to be stuffed into a cushion, the bird becoming balder by the second. Sorrel placed the basket of fruit in front of her